Earl of Roch e s t e r. 14*

Even her fair Hand, which might bid Heat returnTo frozen Age, and make cold Hermits burn,

Apply’d to my dead Cinder, warms no moreThan Fire to A flits cou’d past Flames restore :Trembling, confas’d, despairing, limber, dry,

A wilhing, weak, unmoving Lump I lie;

This Dart of Love, whose piercing Point oft dy’dWith Virgin Blood, ten thousand Mqids has try’d.Which Nature still directed with such Art,

That it thro’ ev’ry-reach’d ev’ry Heart,

Stiffly resolv’d, ’twould carelessly invadeWoman and Boy ; nor aught its Fury staid,

Where e’er it pierc’d, a — it found or made;

Now languid lies in this unhappy Hour,

Shrunk up, and sapless, like a wither’d Flow's .

Thou treach’rous base Deserter of my Flame,

False to my Passion, fatal to my Fame,

By what mistaken Magick do’st thou proveSo true to Lewdness, so untrue to Love ?

What Oyster, Cinder, Beggar, common Whore,

Did’st thou e’er fail in all thy Life before ?

When Vice, Disease, and Scandal lead the Way,With what officious Haste dost thou obey ?

Like a rude roaring Heftor in the Streets,

That scuffles, cuffs, and ruffles all he meets»

But if his King or Country claim his Aid,

The Rascal Villain shrinks, and hides his Head :Even so thy brutal Valour is display’d,

Breaks ev’ry Stew, does each small Whore invade jBut if great Love the Onset does command,

Base Recreant, to thy Prince thou dares not stand.Worst Part of me, and henceforth hated most,

Thro’ all the Town the common —— Post,

On whom each Whore relieves her tingling ,

As Hogs on Gates do rub themselves, and grunt;

May